Thursday, December 29, 2011

And because love battlesnot only in its burning agriculturesbut also in the mouth of men and women,I will finish off by taking the path awayto those who between my chest and your fragrancewant to interpose their obscure plant.

About me, nothing worsethey will tell you, my love,than what I told you.

I lived in the prairiesbefore I got to know youand I did not wait love but I waslaying in wait for and I jumped on the rose.

What more can they tell you?I am neither good nor bad but a man,and they will then associate the dangerof my life, which you knowand which with your passion you shared.

And good, this dangeris danger of love, of complete lovefor all life,for all lives,and if this love brings usthe death and the prisons,I am sure that your big eyes,as when I kiss them,will then close with pride,into double pride, love,with your pride and my pride.

But to my ears they will come beforeto wear down the tourof the sweet and hard love which binds us,and they will say: “The oneyou love,is not a woman for you,Why do you love her? I thinkyou could find one more beautiful,more serious, more deep,more other, you understand me, look how she’s light,and what a head she has,and look at how she dresses,and etcetera and etcetera”.

And I in these lines say:Like this I want you, love,love, Like this I love you,as you dressand how your hair lifts upand how your mouth smiles,light as the waterof the spring upon the pure stones,Like this I love you, beloved.

To bread I do not ask to teach mebut only not to lack during every day of life.I don’t know anything about light, from whereit comes nor where it goes,I only want the light to light up,I do not ask to the nightexplanations,I wait for it and it envelops me,And so you, bread and lightAnd shadow are.

You came to my lifewith what you were bringing,madeof light and bread and shadow I expected you,and Like this I need you,Like this I love you,and to those who want to hear tomorrowthat which I will not tell them, let them read it here,and let them back off today because it is earlyfor these arguments.

Tomorrow we will only give thema leaf of the tree of our love, a leafwhich will fall on the earthlike if it had been made by our lipslike a kiss which fallsfrom our invincible heightsto show the fire and the tendernessof a true love.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

I am sure that the title of this poem will
immediately remind the name of Rudyard Kipling to most of this blog post
readers. Who is Kipling? If you wondered, is a sign of lack of general
knowledge. Kipling was famous author and poet who coined the historical phrase “The
White Man’s Burden" in his poem of the later name. Kipling actually won
the Nobel prize in literature in 1907. This is not a post about Kipling,
thought I strongly suggest you read this Wikipedia article if I have aroused
your interest. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudyard_Kipling

“If”, today’s poem, was written by the forgotten
African American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar. Dunbar was truly a creative genius though
lesser known than Kipling due to racial prejudices of his time (which I will
not discuss here.) Please read this Wikipedia article about Dunbar,http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar

There are many things I could say about Dunbar,
though I fear I might not be able to do him justice but his work will. Let us
judge is genius by his verses.

If by Paul Laurence Dunbar

IF life were but a dream, my Love,
And death the waking time;
If day had not a beam, my Love,
And night had not a rhyme, —
A barren, barren world were this
Without one saving gleam;
I'd only ask that with a kiss
You'd wake me from the dream.
If dreaming were the sum of days,
And loving were the bane;
If battling for a wreath of bays
Could soothe a heart in pain, —
I'd scorn the meed of battle's might,
All other aims above
I'd choose the human's higher right,
To suffer and to love!

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

I got bored and picked up a book
to read, 678 pages long, and well packed.

The story was typical, boy
falling for girl. I like those stories.

The boy did everything boys do to
get girls attention in romance novels.

You know how it rolls. It was a coup de foudre the first time they met.

Then on page 347, the girl died.

I closed the book and found the
writer’s email.

I wrote to her,

“Dear Ms. J.

I‘ve read part of your novel and thus far I have
hated everything I liked about it. Your writing is lyrical, your plot is catchy
but I could not get over page 347.

The death of the girl pained me a
lot. The boy worked hard to get her love and finally when he got it, the girl
died. I guess you tried to mimic somehow Romeo and Juliette but Shakespeare ‘Killed’
those two at the end of the play. You killed yours at the middle, right when
the reader hopes pours like water from a fountain. I do not know why you killed
the girl on page 347, maybe she will return to the boy in her ghostly form or reincarnate
in another girl. That is all fine but I will never be able to finish your novel
after the girl’s death on page 347.

This is no criticism of your craft (you are
actually the first author I have ever emailed) your story is good but you could
have ‘killed’ the girl a bit later. You could have allowed the boys efforts to come
to fruition.

Best regards,

Mory
”

Ms.
J replied two days later (I did not think she would pay attention my email.)

“

Dear
Mory,

I am glad you sent me this interesting email. Thank you
for reading my novel.

Your inability to read past page 347 tells me a lot about
you. Hypothetically speaking, if you
were the boy you would have been stuck there after her death. Your problem is not the
book it about your emotional state…

J”

I leaned
from reading a book something that I may have never learned about myself. Till this
day I haven’t been able to read past page 347.

The boy’s eyes were damp, his eyes fixed at his ex going with the cool kids.

“That girl?” I said

“No stupid. Birds!”

“Your eyes say the girl. You look like you’ve seen an angel.”

“She is a bitch!” the boy said.

“You mean that bird that flew away.”

“No. her.” The boy said pointing at the girl, “they all
leave me anyway.”

“The bird left you because you stoned him.”

“And she left me because I am a sucker.”

“Don’t say that boy. She is a six and you are a seven. “

“Don’t Bullshit me, tall guy. I am no fool.” The boy said
angrily.

“I am dead serious boy. Tall guy is a fool, but he is no
liar.”

“If I’m a seven and she’s a six, why she’s going with them?”

“Boy you got no ball. I mean guts.”

“And you got them?”

“That’s out of your league, boy.” I said. “That girl is a
stupid bird. Forget her.”

“She’s no stupid bird. She is smart. She makes good
choice. She left because I am a loser.

I got no swagger, no money, no cool sneaker and now no
girl friend.”

I patted the boy. “Boy, you and I are alike. But I am no
loser and you’re no uncool boy. I like you.”

The boy look at me like my brother does sometimes when
I advise him good.

“ Boy you’re a fool like me. Fools do not give up. I am
tell you a story.”

“ how a story going to help to win her back.”

“ you will see.” I said. “Once upon a time there was an
old fool living in Spain. He’s name, Don Quixote. He was an old fool, a knight
when there was no knight. People told him he was mad and knight are all gone. But
the old fool didn’t listen to their bullshit because he was no people man and
had a dream. That’s boy.”

“ and what? How’s that going to help me.”

“ I don’t know boy. I read it from a book; A good story. You
make of it what you want.”

“What do you mean?” asked the boy.

“people thinks you’re no cool, you’re a loser, boy. “ I said.
“But who are they to judge who‘s cool?”

“What do you mean?”

“Boy, you’re the coolest son-of-a bitch alive not because
I say so because you should think so. You got something none of these cool kids
does. Trust yourself boy. Let the girl
go. She is a bird amongst millions and all birds aren’t gray.”

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Charles Bukowski is the newest poet i have discovered. His poetry his eloquent and impregnated with passion. I particularly enjoy his poem, which i am posting for the day, Hell is a lonely place. I hope you enjoy each of its words as i do. The poetry is indeed sad but it's beauty is exquisite.

Hell is a lonely place
By Charles Bukowski

he was 65, his wife was 66, had
Alzheimer's disease.
he had cancer of the
mouth.
there were
operations, radiation
treatments
which decayed the bones in his
jaw
which then had to be
wired.
daily he put his wife in
rubber diapers
like a
baby.
unable to drive in his
condition
he had to take a taxi to
the medical
center,
had difficulty speaking,
had to
write the directions
down.
on his last visit
they informed him
there would be another
operation: a bit more
left
cheek and a bit more
tounge.
when he returned
he changed his wife's
diapers
put on the tv
dinners, watched the
evening news
then went to the bedroom, got the
gun, put it to her
temple, fired.
she fell to the
left, he sat upon the
couch
put the gun into his
mouth, pulled the
trigger.
the shots didn't arouse
the neighbors.
later
the burning tv dinners
did.
somebody arrived, pushed
the door open, saw
it.
soon
the police arrived and
went through their
routine, found
some items:
a closed savings
account and
a checkbook with a
balance of
$1.14
suicide, they
deduced.
in three weeks
there were two
new tenants:
a computer engineer
named
Ross
and his wife
Anatana
who studied
ballet.
they looked like another
upwardly mobile
pair.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Boromir was a mighty man encompassing human both man strength and weakness. Ready this article to learn about Boromir

Aragorn:Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass
grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it
goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you
bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide
and grey;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of
Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked
afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men
are.'

Legolas:From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from
the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it
moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring
to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.'
'Ask not of me where he doth dwell -- so many bones
there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the
stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing
Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind
sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs
south,
But you came not with the ailing gulls from the grey
sea's mouth.'

Aragorn:From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past
the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you
bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he
fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they do the water
brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid
to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its
breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward
gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Hello everyone,
It has been about three months I have not updated the blog. Many of you may have worried. I just want to let everyone know that i am still around. The good news is I will shortly Begin posting you poems and many things we share in the Blogsphere.
Mory

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

When the rose is gone and the garden faded
you will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
If love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
How will I be awake and aware
if the light of the Beloved is absent?
Love wills that this Word be brought forth

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About Me

I created this blog to express myself.I think that the best place to express my feelings is on paper. I mostly write poetry and creative writings. I am an aspiring mathematician, currently a freshman at Suny Geneseo.
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